Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) by Carissa Broadbent (good english books to read .TXT) 📕

if she didn’t mean to speak aloud, but before she could say more my father hushed her and wrapped her hand in his. He looked down at their intertwined hands, thinking.

“Keep close watch on the survivors and tell me as soon as any of them awaken,” he said. “Especially him. I will speak to them immediately. I do not wish to imagine what they have already endured.”

I was exhausted. After leaving my parents, I’d begun to head towards my room only for Siobhan to stop me.

“Surely you wouldn’t be so foolish as to think you’re done.”

“Siobhan, I just finished fishing a dozen bodies out of the swamps.”

“You also spat in the face of your vows less than…” She squinted up at one of the timepieces. “…Four hours ago. The Wall is more than well attended now, considering recent events. But all of that guard overstaffing does mean that weapon cleanings have been neglected.”

Any other Commander, and perhaps I might have argued. But Siobhan? It would be like talking to stone. And as I loosed an exasperated sigh and went on my way to the armories, I couldn’t help but glance down at my marked-up forearm and note the patches of remaining clean skin. If I had to choose, I would take cleaning duty over another X.

So, I mustered the last of my energy and dragged myself back to the Blades’ Heart, located deep within the Pales, so far into the darkness that it felt like you had to walk through the night sky to get there.

The House of Obsidian was built entirely within the cliffs of the Pales, hallways burrowing into an endless expanse of glassy black stone. Twinkling silver lights were carved into the walls, adorning the ceilings in scattered illumination. Nestled within our cliffs were entire structures all on their own, everything from homes to shops to government buildings. Individually designed, yes, but all carved from the same stone — all connected to the same heart.

When I was a child, and still the Teirness, I used to visit other houses on diplomatic visits with my parents. I had marveled at the freestanding buildings, towering statehouses and ornate palaces, all of which were clearly great sources of pride. But to me, they had all seemed so vulnerable, like paper sculptures left to stand in the rain. They were just… out there, beneath the sky and rain and wind? So separate from each other? It was unthinkable to me, then. When I was young and afraid at night, I used to press my palm to the wall and I’d swear I could feel the heartbeats of a thousand other people, the heartbeats of all the Sidnee who lived within these walls, and the heartbeat of the Pales themselves. When I did the same in my rooms in those other Houses, I felt nothing but cold brick.

That night, all I could think of were those paper palaces. The House of Stone was one of the places I’d visited all those years ago. And now those lonely buildings were left to crumble.

It was nearly midnight once I finished cleaning, but I couldn’t imagine going back to my chambers and lying there alone in the darkness. Instead, the tavern welcomed me back with open arms, despite the trouble I had caused there earlier that day. My favorite wine was presented wordlessly, the air hot as an embrace, the music roaring, a stranger waiting with a gaze held a little too long.

That was one of the many things I loved about the House of Obsidian: we were among the largest of the Fey Houses, and that meant there was always another stranger. Whatever I could not lose in a drink, I could lose in sloppy kisses against the wall, and then the door, and then my bed. If it was dark enough, I would not have to see whatever stares they would give the X’s up my arms. If I was drunk enough, I would not care either way. Not if it meant that I was the furthest I could possibly be from “alone.”

But that night, there was something chasing me that I couldn’t lose in another’s breath. I had one drink, then two, then four, enough to make touch inviting. And yet, I found myself staggering away from the pub without a partner. I didn’t know, exactly, where I intended to go. I surprised myself when I stumbled past my own chamber door, and instead, kept going down, deeper into the Pales.

The healing quarters were always staffed, but it was so late that even these areas were quiet, devoid of footsteps. My own, even in drunkenness, were silent — a gift of decades of Blade training. I rounded a corner and slipped through a slightly-ajar door, and there before me was the copper-haired Stoneheld man.

He looked like a painting. He was utterly still, eyes closed, dark lashes falling over fair cheeks. I had barely seen his face before. It had been covered in blood and contorted in pain. Now, it was so clean and smooth he seemed as if he had been crafted out of porcelain.

That serenity stood in dark, stark contrast to the rest of him. No wonder there had been so much blood. His body had been torn apart.

Blankets of black silk were folded down neatly across his hips, leaving his abdomen exposed. The sight of it had me drawing in a sharp breath through my teeth. Violet-stained bandages wrapped his ribs, and within those bandages, herbs and flowers and healing spells had been tucked between the folds. Sidnee healers had likely spent the whole day and much of the night casting spells and whispering prayers to Mathira and her sisters. Many of them, by the looks of it.

I just stared at him. Self-consciousness fell over me. I wasn’t sure why I had come here.

Stupid. This had been a stupid idea.

I was about to turn away when I heard a sound — a groan.

I turned around again. The Stoneheld’s